City of Dreams
by jack63kids
Summary: Sherlock is desperate. All he has to be able to defeat his final foe is some confusing script, written in Mandarin, that may or may not be clues that will lead him to finding the right-hand man of his Nemesis. Happy Birthday, Charlie! This is for you - I hope you recognise where it comes from... Grateful for some serious R&Ring - SPaG, the works - bring it on! ;-D
1. Inward Redemption

_**Happy Birthday to the lovely and talented Charlie. Have a wonderful day, my friend. Wish we could all be together to share it...**_

* * *

_However, the seemingly tragic fantasy isn't completely negative, because inwardly, redemption and rebirth are the ultimate pursuit of human beings. - a combination of an antique frame and modern parts. - Human beings are supposed to develop, unrestrained, into free forms. However, we prefer to add restrictions ourselves, setting our growth in a unified and predictable mold. - Surrounded by enormous buildings, I need a light mood and conscious mind in the hustle and bustle of the city. - We are all dreamcatchers in the dark. - Who stole my eyes? - The journey of fingers - Great men have a strong belief in what they do, and never adhere to the norms of society. - the brain is like a maze. When something finds its way in, there is no way out._

* * *

'_inwardly, redemption and rebirth are the ultimate pursuit of human beings_'; outwardly in Sherlock's case. He turned away from the manuscript that he was translating and gazed out the window, a pensive look on his face - as if there was anyone to notice.

_His one focus was on redemption and rebirth - his two focuses - redemption, rebirth and getting back to John - his three focuses ... his Pythonesque quest, John would have said, ever lengthening... The clutter in his brain. No wonder it was taking so long ... too much clutter, no focus ... how could he focus without his blogger?_

He knew that the whole mission relied on this translation and accruing the evidence that he needed to succeed and find the last of Moriarty's henchmen. Only Moran remained on his list, _Saving the_ best _until last_, he thought acidly. The most dangerous of them all, searchable through a series of silly puzzles and games. Why the tract had to be so obscure ... he had pieced together a good part though. Moran was in a modern vibrant city, hiding in plain view. The maze - he ran through this list of famous mazes and drew a blank; or at least not a blank but too many options - Hampton Court leapt to mind. Could Moran really still just be in London while Sherlock was stuck here in Hong Kong? Or was he grasping at straws in the attempt to get back home more quickly. London was hardly renowned for its enormous buildings anymore, unless it referred to the Shard, but then why _buildings_?

_And why stolen eyes - stolen 'i's, maze - maize with a stolen eye, but not stolen eyes_ ... his head throbbed. John would know what to do to make it better. Couldn't get John without the clues, couldn't solve the clues with this throbbing head ... endless, bloody nightmare ...

Antique frame and modern parts ... London again !? Clutching at straws, Sherlock, drowning man ... His head spun, his eyelids drooped closed. 72 solid hours with no sleep and no nourishment. Then inky blackness and the nightmares, the sleeping kind this time. And being woken with a start by the shouting voice, _help_! _help_! _help_! over and over again until he realised that he had the power to stop it, it was his own voice.

Then his face exploded with grinning laughter - of course - Macau - the City of Dreams, where the dreamcatchers live. Hazy translation, but close enough. And talking of close, Macau was virtually on his doorstep - well across the Zhujiang estuary at any rate - and Sherlock knew a man with a boat who was discretion itself. At least try there first, London could wait. The last part was a warning - find your way in, Sherlock, and you may never get out. Never mind that - if there was a way out of this living hell, he'd risk anything.

* * *

?

* * *

Macau was big and ugly and Sherlock was not impressed with the opulent buildings. He found it soulless, not that he didn't find everything soulless without John, but this place especially so.

They'd driven around for a couple of hours already and he was getting nowhere fast. None of the glossy brochures showed these depressing streets, but still there was nowhere that brought to mind lost eyes or a journey of fingers.

And then he saw it, an enormous building surrounded by scaffolding, like fingers barring entry to the building. A building with missing windows, like empty eye sockets. And at that moment, Sherlock without a shadow of a doubt that his quest was completely hopeless and he that he was clutching at straws. There was no way that he was ever going to find Moran this way, by following meaningless clues that could mean anything. He had no idea if he were even on the right continent, let alone which room in which building in the world, Moran might be hiding out. It was be a near impossibility for Moran to be at home whenever Sherlock chose to call. They could have been standing within feet of each other at any time during Sherlock's long mission to find him and neither of them would ever have known.

There had to be another way. Another way that didn't endanger Sherlock's friends and didn't alert Moran to the fact that Moriarty's nemesis was still in the land of the living. But what. Putting himself up as bait was a sure fire way of getting John killed and then game over and he might as well not have bothered all these months.

* * *

**_And... I promise to proofread this when I'm able... Apologies for lack of coherence, dreadful typos and all kinds of fanficy misdemeanours..._** **=;-D**


	2. Dreamcatchers in the Dark

**Chapter 2: ****_Dreamcatchers in the Dark_**

When Sherlock first recruited Chew to be his look-out boy, the lad had requested a title.

"What shall I be, Mr Holmes? Shall I be your Chief Spy, or Head of Operations at Lake Nam Van?"

Sherlock considered for a moment and, in uncharacteristically playful mood he replied, "Head of the IHN." Chew looked pleased. "... for all of Macau," Sherlock added generously.

Chew pondered for a moment. Initials made an impact, they meant something, importance, status, things that Chew had not had before as a lowly peasant who spoke Hakka at home, when he had a home.

"Ok, Mr Holmes... what does IHN mean?" he half whispered as if he was risking the enemy overhearing a vital secret.

"It means", said Sherlock imperiously, "that you are an agent of my International Network."

Chew looked impressed, as he was supposed to do, but continued to push his luck. "And am I an important agent in your Network?"

Sherlock said, "I guess so, as you're the _only_ one outside of London."

Chew looked disappointed and Sherlock realised his mistake too late. The boy was asking for validation and he'd failed to follow through. It was a fleeting emotion across the young face and Chew rallied quickly. "No, _no_, Mr Holmes!" he chided. "You need to follow _Chinese_ way - flatter and tell half truths - never tell someone they are best in race only because there are no others running! Tell them they are fastest, they are best in race, and that no one can touch them. That is Chinese way - worked for generations, no kidding, Mr Holmes." Chew's cheeky face was shining at being able to teach his mentor and latest hero a thing or too about human psychology.

Sherlock smiled at him. The boy's humour and good nature were infectious. Sherlock hadn't felt so good about life, so optimistic, so in control, so ... human, for such a long time - not since John.

Chew had been so certain about the building that Sherlock had been swept along with his enthusiasm. Sherlock was less sure now that they had abandoned all other leads, not that there was anything else promising on the horizon.

Sherlock sighed. Even if this was the longest shot it was his only lead. And he'd take the slimmest odds if it meant moving along his critical path: find Moran, eliminate the threat to his friends, prove his innocence, get his life back again, move back with John... A pipe-dream, but any lead had to be followed up - he'd followed so many paths that led nowhere, so very many over the past few months - years. Nothing had brought him nearer his goal, nothing would prevent him carrying on trying.

Nine days into his vigil outside the building, and something was certainly happening there, something that involved British staff and clientele, most certainly involved drugs and was a particularly male pursuit. The whole time that Sherlock and his minions had kept watch not a single woman had entered or left the premisses - more importantly, disappointingly, neither had Moran or any of Moran's known associates.

People came and went at all kinds of random times of night and early morning. There seemed to be no particular pattern and the same people were seldom seen leaving within a few hours of their arrival. They had chosen a place where it was easy to disappear inside an abandoned building unobserved. All the other buildings surrounding that area were derelict, there was no street lighting of any kind nearby, the traffic was pushed away from facing the entrances, by road works, and it was not an area where the casual walker would flit by. You needed to have a reason to be in that area after dark. That should make anyone there more conspicuous, but then there usually wasn't anyone to observe them. Now there was.

When Chew had described how people seemed to vanish into the side of the building, Sherlock had thought the lad was exaggerating or telling tales.

"_Honest to gods, Mr Holmes, one minute they're there, the next - _poof_! Like Derren Brown magic_!"

The first time he observed it himself, he watched as the man strode purposely forward and then _genuinely_ disappeared behind the scaffolding without breaking step. If you hadn't been watching him closely then you'd assume that he had walked around the building, which made up a traffic island in the warehouse region of the city. No one would bother to look twice to see where he had gone.

It was Chew who spotted the abandoned office block with a good sight-line to the building. It was at a peculiar angle, but you could see anyone coming or going from the side where all the action occurred.

Nine days. Nine boring, impatient days... nothing happening, no nearer to John than he had been when planning his own death all that time ago.

It was dusk, long before the real action started over the road, when Sherlock spotted a diminutive figure, carrying a tray with studied concentration. He reached Sherlock's side of the road and glanced up at the window that Sherlock was observing from and grinned. Sherlock was fairly sure that he could not be seen from the street due to careful positioning, being careful not to show a light, the ragged blinds and the grime on the panes. The boy had likely been primed to do this to unnerve the detective - Sherlock refused to be unnerved and held his position. The boy's eyes were pointing a little to his left - definitely looking but not seeing - Sherlock waited to see what he'd do next, determined not to make the first move and show his hand.

Moments later there was a sharp knocking, or rather kicking at the street door, presumably as the tray hampered a traditional knock. Sherlock decided not to be coy and opened the door to his first visitor, not counting Chew.

The boy handed Sherlock the tray with a smile and a small bow, which threatened to slide the contents straight off and into Sherlock's lap. "With the compliments of the management, Mr Holmes," he said in a studied Home Counties accent, which amused Sherlock given the boy's obvious heritage. He reminded Sherlock of Chew, his own diminutive spy, and wondered at the fate that had led one child to be the side-kick of a man who's only aim in life was to protect his friends and the other the servant of the man determined to kill them. Sherlock had already surmised whose employ _this_ boy was in.

The boy bowed out of the room as Sherlock poured over the contents of the tray, unaware that his entire questioning of the boy, and the answers required, had taken place in his head and that neither had said another word after the boy's initial statement.

The tray was bearing a sake set with a small pan of hot water underneath the carafe to keep the beverage warm. Sherlock sniffed it hesitantly but could detect nothing but the smell of the rice wine - a fine one at that, not to be relegated for cooking. He considered taking a sip on the grounds that if this was a present from Moran then was hardly likely to use anything so mundane to finish off the arch-enemy of his erstwhile boss. He'd take that under advisement, there was, after all, no John with his Sig Sauer ready to shoot the competitor in this game of wits.

Sherlock had not been unaware of the syringe. It was another consideration in his evaluation of the poisonous qualities of the sake. This was much more Moran's style. Tempt Sherlock, and enable him to be the author of his own downfall. Maybe a few months ago he would have taken this option - oblivion and the certainty that his friends would be safe after his fall into the lake of addiction and eventual death. Moran was a man of some principle. He would not break the code of honour that was unspoken between them. They may be opposites on the side of right and wrong, but they respected each other enough for there to still be rules.

Sherlock uncharacteristically decided to accept neither of Moran's gifts - if this was Moran and not some Macau drug's baron. Either way, it was a game of Russian Roulette that he was not prepared to gamble on.


	3. The Journey of Fingers

**Chapter 3: ****_The Journey of Fingers_**  
Sherlock had made a show of abandoning his lookout post once it was obvious that he had been discovered. Later the same day he snuck back in through the back, with Chew as his guide, through the back alleys. He wasn't confident that anyone had been fooled, but at least he was playing the game.

It was two days after the tray incident and nothing further had happened. Sherlock was settling down for a rest as there was little to observe in daylight hours at the warehouse. He took one last look out of the dirty windows when he spotted a different lad winging his way across the busy city street with another tray. Sherlock hadn't been looking moments before, so couldn't be sure whether this one had come from the building he was observing or not.

This boy was tall, skinny, well dressed in a suit that was expensive but hung on him like he'd dropped a few stone in weight over night. He sported a smart hat, a black fedora, pulled down to shade his face - the sun was furious out on the street even that early in the morning. He minced with a slight sway of the hips, effeminate, and the casual observer might wonder what else they were peddling, other than drugs, in that establishment, if that's where he had indeed come from. He seemed too fresh-faced to be a client, whatever they had on sale. Sherlock, however, smiled as he made his own assessment.

The front door had been kicked in days before by some homeless urchin, who Sherlock had to find better accommodation just to get rid of him, so he next heard footsteps coming up towards his look-out. The boy didn't knock when he arrived at the upstairs room, but pushed the door open with his hip and stood grinning on the threshold as Sherlock peered at him across the unlit expanse.

"Well hello, Mr Holmes,' the seductive voice purred. "We meet again."

Sherlock held back a grin, he felt exposed and strangely energised under the unblinking gaze.

"I've always wanted to say that, it's _so_ James Bond - though I guess that would be more appropriate for your dear brother. How is the charming Mycroft? Long time, no see."

The tray-bearer stepped confidently towards him. Sherlock resisted the urge to move away to maintain the distance.  
"Same as ever. I take it you're off duty from '_waiting_' and so can waste as much time as is available in sharing inane pleasantries?"

"I wasn't counting on any _sharing_, Mr Holmes, unless... _Dinner_?"

"I'm not hungry, Ms Adler," Sherlock said exhaling slowly and audibly.

"Did I mention any _food_?" she said, looking around the room casually. "At least let me put this tray down. Where do you keep your occasional tables?"

Sherlock hadn't moved from his position in the window since she came in. He shifted from one foot to the other and continued to eye his visitor.

Irene placed the tray down on the floor, removed her hat with a theatrical flourish and mussed her short hair into place with one hand as she turned back to face her host.

"Would you be more comfortable if I removed this suit?" she asked. "You look a lot less relaxed than when we first met." She made to take off her jacket, but hesitated while seeming to observe Sherlock's reactions.

Sherlock wondered if everything she said was designed to unnerve - not just him but any man - anyone. He fully expected that she was the same with women.

"Why did you send the _first_ tray?" he urged.

There was a momentary look of confusion in her violet eyes and Sherlock suppressed a smirk. His reactions were giving away as much as her own, he feared.

Irene was never one for standing around allowing her opponents, foe or friend, to read her. She stepped brazenly forwards and, fixing Sherlock with her gaze, she pressed the pads of her fingers of one hand lightly onto his cheek bone. Neither of them blinked as each stared the other out. Eyes dilated, he didn't need to hold her wrist to know that her pulse was racing - he could feel his own treacherous heart pounding in his chest. Time stood still.

"I've missed you - _this_-" she breathed.

"So, if it wasn't you then - who?" he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

Irene continued to gaze into Sherlock's eyes, but at least had now decided to answer his questions. "I take it that one wasn't a _tea_-tray then," she said inquiringly.

"Not unless your idea of afternoon tea involves drug induced delusions," he said with a bored tone.

Irene raised her eyebrows suggestively. "I'm more of a crumpet girl."

Sherlock had felt this way precisely twice in his life and this was one of them. Solving cases was fun but ostensibly to fight off boredom - this was something else, something richer, a thrill of a different kind altogether. He wondered if it was worth the lack of focus, the delay in following his critical path, and decided that it was a distraction he could do without - at least for the time being - however welcome the feelings it engendered. If she couldn't help, if she knew no more than he did, then she would have to go.

Sherlock took hold of Irene's wrist but this time he wasn't taking her pulse. He gently twisted her arm so that he removed her fingers from his cheek bones. Irene looked surprised and raised her eyebrows at him again. This time she looked amused. "Can't take the heat, Sherlock?" she asked.

"As pleasant as this is, Ms Adler, if you are simply here as a diversion to an otherwise boring existence, I suggest that you take up Scrabble or knitting. I have work to do. What do you know about the building opposite?"

Irene paused for a moment. "It's hard to concentrate on business while we're holding hands," she said reasonably.

Sherlock looked down and realised that the hand that had removed hers from his face, had slipped down to gently cradle Irene's. He dropped it like a hot potato, to more knowing smiles from Irene.

"What do you want to know?" Irene said, sitting astride the only chair in the room. She managed to look both beguiling and business-like as she focused her attention on Sherlock's questions.

"Whether it is simply a gambling and drug's den, or there is something nefarious going on there; who the clients are; how it is that there are never any staff or women coming or going - I can believe that many are slaves who never leave, but not _the Woman_, no one owns her or keeps her in captivity."

"Fair point, I do like my home comforts and foreign travel." Irene wrinkled her forehead.

"Don't sensor your information too much," Sherlock said. "More than _my_ life depends on your answers." It was a clever emphasis. Whether or not Irene did indeed care about his welfare she would be as helpful as she could to safeguard the lives of others. She may act all detached, and could be ruthless when she needed to be, but Sherlock now knew better.

Irene shifted in her chair. "And mine might just be in the balance if I answer as fully as you seem to expect. Debts have been paid, what makes you think that I still owe you anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Who said anything about owing. If you want me and my friends around in the future to bail you out of trouble, then you had better start talking as they say on police procedurals." And that gave them both the let out from showing any real emotion or giving away any weakness in their motivation.

"I'd not have been in trouble if it hadn't have been for you and your friends, Mr Holmes." Her face was hard and her mouth a straight line when she finished speaking and Sherlock didn't push further.

A good minute must have passed before she spoke again, exhaling as her whole body relaxed. "Ok, gambling and drugs is about it - not necessarily in that order - as far as the clientele are concerned. There's nothing dodgy going on involving sex trafficking or anything underage. Some of the girls earn themselves a little on the side, but that's strictly off premises. They're strict about that.

"There are a few business high-flyers who come annually to get wasted and spend their hard earned bonuses on the roulette wheel. I suspected at first that they were being encouraged into oblivion to fleece them of any knowledge about the business world, but I have no evidence of that."

Sherlock made a show of looking at his empty wrist. He'd taken his watch off and left it on the windowsill when he was on look-out so he could see the time easily without moving and potentially giving his presence away.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "It's no good, Sherlock, I'm good, but I don't read minds, not even yours, which I'd very much like to step into..." Hers eyes were on him the whole time she spoke, but Sherlock was still acting as if she was wasting his time and she paused to let him speak.

"I need to know who runs it, what the deal is, Ms Adler, or we might as well have spent the time exchanging pleasantries."

"Oh, weren't we? I thought that was the whole point of taking afternoon tea with an old friend... a new lover..." She ignored Sherlock scowl. "Tea's getting stewed, Sherlock, shall I be-"

"-seriously, Ms Adler-"

Irene pouring them both tea as she continued. "No one knows who he is - but we do know that he's highly dangerous. He has as many dirty tricks and a network to rival Moriarty. Don't cross him, Sherlock, the risk isn't worth the consequences. When Jim saw you as a threat you had die... this man won't be any different."

"So how about the means? How do the others get in and out without using the door?"

"You're going to like that, Sherlock. It's all very Scooby-Doo."

Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Oh surely you watched some popular kids' TV, or did Mycroft sit you in front of political documentaries as a chid-minding service?"

Sherlock didn't respond and Irene assumed that this was at least partially true.

"Right, well, there are tunnels under the streets in this area. There is a very busy small family restaurant around the corner which has so many people coming and going that a casual observer would wonder how they could all fit in to such a small building. Neighbours in that sector don't ask questions and don't talk about other people's business. It's worked for millennia, kept them and their families alive, and there's no reason to alter a perfectly good system." She gave him her best, _anything else?_ smile as she sipped her tea.

Sherlock, however, was cross with himself. He was usually better at staking out a locality and he was rather worried that he was losing his touch, or at least some focus. He'd not used any local networks for fear of giving himself away to the enemy until he knew what he was dealing with. From his limited contact with locals in the vicinity, he had observed them to be a rather twitchy bunch, not so ready as his London based network to make a ready buck or stick one to the authorities.

Chew was an exception, but then he wasn't local and he was a particularly bright and gutsy example of Chinese youth. He wasn't going to risk the boy by bringing him nearer to the action than was strictly necessary. It was alright for Chew to show him the back alleys and bring him to the lookout, but not to go asking questions and making himself conspicuous. Sherlock could at least have scouted out the locality himself. He felt strangely exposed in front of Irene knowing this. He blocked out these self-deprecating thoughts with an abrupt question-

"Have you ever heard of a man who goes by the name Colonel Sebastian Moran?"

Irene looked at him appraisingly. "No, but I know a man who is actually _called_ Sebastian Moran - would that do?"

"Seen him recently?"

"Depends what you mean by recently." She looked at Sherlock's expression and continued plainly, "Not for nearly two years now."

"Would you know if he ever attends the establishment over the road?"

"I'm not there all the time", Irene had obviously given up pussy footing around and was giving direct answers, "but I haven't seen him, no. I can ask around, but it might look a tad suspicious."

"If he shows up there, get me a message any way that you can."

"Sure, I'll wave my knickers out of the nearest window and hope that you can keep my head on my shoulders a second time then, shall I." She sounded angry now, her lips pursed and her eyes blazing.

"Can I refresh that for you?" Sherlock asked pleasantly.

"No, no I don't think so. I've rather gone off the idea of afternoon tea with a lunatic." She rose from her chair. "Why are you so intent on getting us both killed, Mr Holmes?" Sherlock noted that he had been relegated to his surname once more. "I came here to warn you that they don't like being watched - none of them - and pretty well any of the clients at this establishment can have you, I, your little Chinese lackey, Mrs Hudson, anyone, killed in a heartbeat." She certainly wasn't smiling now. "Don't gamble with other people's lives, Mr Holmes. You will do as you wish with your own, I have no doubts. But leave the rest of us out it!"

Sherlock had been watching her carefully throughout her tirade. Something didn't ring true. She was lying, covering something up and she most obviously, even as she stormed out banging the door, was much more worried than angry.


	4. The Norms of Society

**Chapter 4: ****_The Norms of Society_**  
Sherlock lay on his futon and thought for a long while, unable to sleep in the morning heat. They weren't pleasant thoughts. All this time, waiting, hoping, he had been looking for some answers, some conclusive proof that he was nearing his goal, a step further along his critical path.

Either Moran was staying away as he knew Sherlock was onto him, or he'd never been there in the first place. Sherlock'd also been able to knock someone else off the list of informants - he'd not had to ask to know that it hadn't been Irene who'd been sending him those coded messages. So who? And why? Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was Moran himself, putting Sherlock off the scent or drawing him into a complicated trap.

_- the brain is like a maze. When something finds its way in, there is no way out -_  
He hadn't thought about the translations much for a while and he wondered again if there were further hidden messages that he had been missing.

He woke in a cold sweat just as the sun was setting. He'd not slept this long in one go since his much publicised Fall, and cursed himself for oversleeping. It had not been a recuperative sleep either. His mouth felt dry and his limbs ached. It was reminiscent of hang-over mornings and he wondered if he'd succumbed and taken the syringe of drugs after all, until he remembered that he'd flushed the contents to avoid the temptation. He had dreamt, long, bemusing, inconsequential dreams, but nothing had stayed with him on waking, except for the last scene where he dreamt he had woken up in the kitchen of a rather fine Chinese restaurant.

When he opened his eyes, Chew was kneeling on the floor, throwing finely shredded vegetables into a wok that was sizzling over his little camp-stove. The boy had a way with soy sauce and mirin which he'd picked up from his Japanese grandmother. Sherlock smiled, despite himself. He looked forward to moments with the boy - his only friend since John, or at least Molly, he reminded himself. He could not get used to having friends, people who cared about him and who he could tolerate to be in the same room as - would chose to be in the same room as. He made a mental note to show it a little more, a little at all, when they were all reunited. It said a lot for how much these friends had changed Sherlock that he was not now lamenting that they could not possibly want to know him for how he had abandoned them in their grief.

Chew was smiling, but didn't look up as Sherlock awoke to the smell of his fine cooking. He'd already thrown the succulent vegetables into two small bowls and placed a pair of plain black chop-sticks into the noodles, where they stuck, pointing towards Sherlock accusingly.

"I thought I told you not to come here on your own!" Sherlock admonished his small chef.

Chew picked up a morsel of cabbage with his chop-sticks and popped it into his mouth before answering, with his mouth now full. Sherlock knew that this was his own fault, having talked nonstop through the first meal prepared for him by Chew's ancient grandmother, shoveling food into his mouth as if his life depended on it, which it may well have done, as he'd gone two days longer than his personal best for depriving himself. Madam Cho, as she was known locally, had saved his life at least twice that day. By feeding him when near starvation, and by stopping him from eating everything all at once and likely bringing it all back up before it did him any good. Chew, however, had been impressed with the brief 'Western style' of eating and taken it up in Sherlock's presence.

"How else can I bring you message from pretty lady, Mr Sherlock?" he said, swallowing slowly and following up a chopstick load of noodles, before speaking again. "She _real_ pretty lady, Mr Sherlock," he went on in admiring tones.

"_And_..." Sherlock prompted, more impatiently than he had intended.

"And... and, you need to eat before get cold, Mr Sherlock! Eat, _eat_!" he said, looking shyly at Sherlock through thick dark lashes.

Sherlock took a bite of the stir-fry in his bowl and smiled at Chew in appreciation. The boy certainly knew how to cook and left out any hard to digest protein in deference to Sherlock being on a case. The extra ginger was obviously to do with large or small intestine energy, Sherlock had deleted which, but some vestiges of Chinese diagnosis had stuck in his brain unbidden.

"Look! I'm eating, no need for you to stop talking, Chew," he said, all but making yummy noises over his chow bowl.

"She real pretty, Mr Sherlock and she say you don't like to be called Mr Holmes, she say it a '_family dy-man-ic has you in its grip_'. So I call you Mr _Sherlock_ now - yes?" Sherlock nodded and the boy contentedly continued. "She say, man you wait for is real bad man and you go, you go now and not come back!"

Sherlock paused, loaded chopsticks in his hand. He rather wished it was John's Sig Sauer that had more ammunition in it than a mouthful of mixed vegetables, as finesse and careful research was not going to win him his prize this time. Chew was observing his reaction closely. He sighed loudly. "_She say you say that, she say you not smart and would say that_." He was talking to the floor while shaking his head regretfully. "So she say tell you that bad man will come next month on New Moon. She don't know which day for sure, but at New Moon and you go away - come back then. She say to me _that the best we can hope, Chew_. She very pretty lady, Mr Sherlock, _very_ pretty. _Why you not listen her, Mr Sherlock_?"

Sherlock experienced the feeling of equal peace and panic that he hadn't felt in a long time, the rise of adrenaline that came upon him when things started to fall into place in a puzzle. The moment when he agreed to take on a case, rather than it's denouement, but a moment where he knew for certain that this was the case for him and that he could solve it, he would solve it come what may.

* * *

Madam Cho, who also incidentally went by the Japanese names of Kasumi Tadokoro, Michie Gunma and Tomoko Okayama, was no blood relation of Chew. She had taken the orphaned boy in after she caught him stealing fruit from her barrow. He had been given the hiding of his lifetime, a hot bath, followed by his first hot meal in as many months as years he been on the planet. Chew had known that his tough and inestimable grandmother would take in Sherlock too when he'd found him passed out in the alleyway behind their dwelling from self-imposed starvation.

Madam Cho treated both her boys the same and scolded Sherlock when Chew brought him back home for the long wait on the vagaries of the lunar cycle. Sherlock was as dirty as he had been when she's first come upon him and he was well on his way towards being as emaciated. The dark shadows under his eyes had returned and he had the look of a man pursued by personal demons. She also noted that he had a look of a man on a mission though not as unhappy as when they first laid eyes on each other.

She pursed her lips and slit her eyes as she watched him walk cautiously into the room, trying not to grin like a naughty school boy. It was harder than you'd imagine under her stoney gaze. She spoke in Mandarin, a neutral language that they both understood but did not leave either at a disadvantage. If she'd been really angry with him, she'd have spoken in Ryukyuan Japanese, which Sherlock was not word perfect in, sometimes invoking her wrath by mistaking the word order.

She was, however, mad enough at him to swipe hard at the side of his head with a gnarled hand and make his ears ring. She was amazingly strong for such a stringy, ancient lady and at not much over four foot eight, she could only manage to reach him when she was standing on her stool or he was sitting down, so he could predict more easily when it was coming. It was never worth avoiding however as she would get him later at twice the velocity.

"You ungrateful wretch! What was the point of my feeding you up and lavishing all that care when you go away and ruin all my hard work? Look at you!" Sherlock noted that her grammar and diction were perfect - another indication of concern over genuine anger. She descended in street slang and an onslaught of phrases and unfinished sentences when she was really riled.

It was nearly three days of eating, and sleeping when she ordered, before she didn't hurmph every time she laid eyes on him and another two before she would allow him to go out in one of the few disguises that he was able to reprieve in front of the locals.

Sherlock stood out locally - his height could not be totally disguised, though acquiring a stoop diminished the effect. His best disguises were as a drunk tourist, a roll he had down to a fine art, or a mute local with some form on mental health issue. He'd tried out being a foreign business man but people look too interested even when not verbalising, as was the local way, their curiosity. His voice was also problematic and he had the option of either going for Western foreigner or an Asian foreigner, never a local.

His boredom factor was such that Mrs Hudson's wall would not have survived that period of time and Sherlock was going stir-crazy by then, so he would have gone out disguised as Mrs Hudson if it meant just being able to get out for a few hours.

He waited until it was getting dark, donned the old clothes, several sizes too big, that Chew had 'borrowed' for him, rubbed dirt into his face and hands, threw a glass of sake at his face, decided to rub more dirt over himself, and filled the empty sake bottle with water, as his prop for the show.

He considered staking out the Building, as he'd come to term it in his head, but decided that would not be prudent however discreet he was. Being outside and free for a few hours would have to be enough.

And it did do his cerebral functioning a power of good, so much so that he came up with the first real plan that had occurred to him since coming to Macau. He needed to gain access to the Building. Access was via a certain restaurant bordering Nam Van Lake. What do busy restaurants need? Sherlock, that's what. He could cook like a native, wait tables, show people to their seats, sweep the floors, take the rubbish out, whatever would get him in there and eventually give him access to that tunnel.

And so, the next few days were taken up with transforming Sherlock into obsequious, toadying Chien. His backstory was perfect and even explained his extraordinary height for a Vietnamese and strange accent. Chien did not have a surname as he had dropped his American father's name when that serviceman had denied paternity when Chien had finally traced him to a prestigious bank in Macau. He had a reason for his mother choosing his given name as Chien, meaning warrior, after his American father's roll in her country. Chien had even considered changing that until he realised that it reflected on his own mother rather than the father who had abandoned her and had nothing to do with his Vietnamese son's upbringing.

Chew had got into the swing quickly and with great relish, providing further stories of Chien's background and home life as well as his motivations in adulthood. Sherlock wondered if they had gone too far, but reflected that too much was better than not enough and an inconsistency or hole in his story could prove fatal.

As it turned out Sherlock didn't need to use much of his backstory as the very next day one of the waiters turned up at their rooms with news for Madam Cho. The young man turned up unannounced in a bad suit and with a worse attitude towards Sherlock's alter ego.

"Madam Cho, I bring good news from the Happy Dove Restaurant. I have personally found a position for the thankless, bloodsucking parasite that you have been so kind to bring into your home." He smiled as obsequiously as Sherlock had been practicing for his role as his nom de guerre.

Madam Cho nodded her approval and the man continued.

"The dog will present himself at the restaurant later, at three twenty-five in the morning precisely to be start work in the kitchens. He will have a trial of two nights work cleaning the kitchens once the restaurant is closed. He must not show himself until all the clientele is out of sight - we do not wish to scare away good customers - if he is a moment late then he can forget the job."

Chew later wondered out loud how Sherlock was supposed to both avoid all the customers, who would likely be still leaving at that time and still turn up _punctually_ if any were still lingering outside the restaurant. The man had made it perfectly clear that under no circumstances whatever, was he to come in by any door other than the customer entrance. A most unusual stipulation for a kitchen cleaner. And finally, any wages he might accrue after the trial period were to be paid directly to Madam Cho, the back pay only being liable if he passed the trial with flying colours.

It couldn't be better, but Sherlock and Chew could not help being slightly disappointed none-the-less that Chien wouldn't get to tell his gloomy story.


	5. Stolen Eyes

_**I haven't killed a major character before. I wonder what it feels like... just saying...**_

* * *

**Chapter 5: ****_Stolen Eyes_**

Two men who Sherlock immediately deduced, by their collars, as the other two cleaners were waiting in the alley smoking and laughing. One was a modest expert in martial arts and the other had grown up on a farm. He noted that both had had better jobs until relatively recently and had obviously then eaten much better and had more comfortable lives than they were now enjoying. He mused at how lives could be changed in a moment, not always for the better.

Sherlock had been about to give up and go inside, risking meeting the half dozen or so diners who were saying their bleary goodbyes near the doorway. He couldn't risk flunking this job, it was too important for a stupid mistake and the sack, so he was glad when he spotted the other workers waiting. He sauntered over to introduce himself as briefly as possible while giving as little away about Chien as the mistrustful character was likely to.

"What's the deal here?" Chien said in street Mandarin scowling at the other kitchen hands.

The masks came down on two faces. "What's that to you?" the elder one said, throwing the butt onto the ground in front of Chien's feet without stubbing it out.

"I'm the new boy," Chien said with a sneer, giving the impression he knew he was way above this menial job, this unworthy establishment, but especially the jumped up oiks who thought they could push him around in the name of management. "Can't go in - management imperative. Can't be late - our hides not worth their waiting time. Who do they think they are anyway!"

The other men looked more relaxed now. There is nothing that many menial workers like more than having a verbal boss-bashing session.

"So you got 'interviewed' by that fat-headed mother's boy?" Worker number two spat wide of their feet. It was a companionable move, not aimed towards Chien but, rather, bringing him into their orbit. "Likes to f**k with the new staff, thinks he's better than we are." A glob of Sherlock's spit joined the dust with it's brother, in recognition of the truth of that statement.

Worker number one eyed Chien in a more paternal way. "No worries, son, they call us in when it's 'safe' to do so, so we don't contaminate the lovely foreign dogs who excrete their niceties over us and think they do us a favour." Sherlock risked a one-sided smirk and was rewarded with a pat on the shoulder.

"You can call me Uncle 'Guo, everyone does. Everyone I can stomach that is." Faster work than he'd supposed, these guys must be really ticked off with management to take him as one of their own so quickly. But Sherlock wasn't complaining at how popular Chien was becoming.

The older man continued. "Anyone not hanging around wasting their time waiting to allowed access to _the Holy Shit-Hole_, gets a slap on the wrist - no more than being docked an hour's pay, nothing to stop you shitting in the mornings." He laughed at his own wit.

When neither of his companions joined in he continued, "Always possible to make that up. When the kitchen staff get wind of it, your wife, your mother, your second favourite aunt, finds a box of goodies waiting on her doorstep, the Lucky Dove ain't so lucky. Good system, works well for all. And they treat us right, we don't shit in the staff kettle!" He laughed coarsely, thumping Chien on the back until a fit of smoker's coughing resulted in Chien and his other new colleague thumping him on the back in turn until it stopped. Such was the bonding ceremony of the Lucky Dove restaurant kitchen staff that night.

* * *

Two nights later and Chien was back in the alley but to a much cooler reception. Apparently Chien wasn't costing the firm so much and now his new friend, Peng, was now no longer his friend and no longer employed by the Lucky Dove Restaurant. Sherlock, if not Chien, regretted this, but comforted himself with the fact that within a few days he'd be gone and Peng could have his old job back again.

Uncle 'Guo was no longer his uncle and barely tolerated being called Jingguo with a series of grunts to anything that Chien said to him. Sherlock was thinking that this might be useful now as it would have been difficult to carry out the necessary research on the tunnel and to eventually slip away unnoticed when the time came. His two colleagues had seemed to want to spend every available moment with him and practically walked him to his door after a shift. Now he was loathed, it was easy to slip around the back and make a putty copy of the keys required to get him through the back of the kitchens and out to the tunnel entrance hidden in the kitchen stores. He noted times that people came and went and how many guards were there and when they locked the doors for the night.

Chew had reported that most activity was during the early morning and at day break. Sherlock thought that accurate, as few people came and went during his shift. When they did they were heavily made-up young women, carrying their own contraband keys, with their well-healed clients following like sheep. He didn't want to know what they were up to, but couldn't help visualising these beautiful, young women with the sweaty older men who accompanied them. It wasn't a pretty thought.

The one short window of opportunity when he was least likely to meet anyone was between three thirty and sometime before five am. Seemed that both trades were quiet at that time of the morning.

Sherlock suffered several more nights of Jingguo's silent treatment and greasy vats to clean out. Jingguo saved the worst jobs for Chien and Sherlock was fairly certain he'd bribed the cooks to make his job as demeaning and unpleasant as possible. On the night before the new moon, Sherlock wasn't surprised at what he found in the staff kettle... He comforted himself that tomorrow would the final shift he'd have to suffer and visited a room in his Mind Palace that blocks out all other considerations and the time passed.

Jingguo was especially uncommunicative the following evening, and it wasn't difficult for Sherlock to hang behind and slip unnoticed back into the kitchens where he waited until he heard the final bolts going on the front doors.

The first thing he did was change into the clothing that he had hidden in a cistern in the women's toilets the night before. If there was a chance he might bump into someone unexpectedly he needed to have a cover story for being there and he needed to look the part. When Sherlock left the toilets, the American-Vietnamese boy Chien was gone and a smart and sophisticated business man out for pleasure had arrived. Sherlock could act twelve distinctly different types of stoned if he needed to and he wouldn't have been surprised if that would be the most appropriate disguise once inside the Building.

Going through the tunnel was a breeze. His plan was working thus far, no one else was coming or going at that time. The tunnel came up again into an anteroom to a large changing room, where many exotic costumes were hung up around lit mirrors. It was a chaotic room, where everything was thrown around higgledy piggledy. In the dim light, and with the mess, it took Sherlock a while to notice the couple. They were entwined together in a way that he wasn't sure how _involved_ they were at that particular moment.

The woman looked stricken as she noticed him over her companions shoulders and widened her eyes in horror, while mouthing, '_go away_!'

Sherlock backed out of the room, with less care than he might otherwise have done. He had noticed, from general dress, demeanour and the abundance of tattoos and body piercings that this was no business man out for a good time, but one of the club bouncers. He stopped abruptly and looked around as he felt eyes on the back of his neck.

"Oi, you, English twat! Trying to get yourself killed?"

Sherlock looked around to find Chew's possibly evil counterpart standing, legs akimbo, staring at him from the dark alcove ahead. He beckoned for Sherlock to come closer. "I can get you up there. That's what you want isn't it?" the boy asked eagerly.

Sherlock nodded.

"Then you're going to have to do everything I say. You're here to kill him, aren't you? The man who hurts me," he went on as if Sherlock knew what he was talking about.

Sherlock didn't speak but the boy didn't seem to mind. "I'm glad," he continued, "he's got it coming. You stick him one from me, Mr Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock could see in the dim light that the boy was grinning, he looked almost evil, but then that could have just been the strange lighting effect.

"Wait here," the boy said, pushing Sherlock into a large cupboard near the alcove and letting himself into the women's dressing-room. There was some imaginative swearing from both male and female voices and he emerged again grinning, carrying a long fancy dress with a slit up the side, some stockings, a fancy padded bra, a wig, and a woman's make-up bag. Sherlock grinned back when he realised what the boy intended.

"You gotta get right across the roulette room and through the bar to get to him. You can do that without getting your arse pinched or starting a fight?"

Sherlock nodded. It wasn't the first time he'd worn drag and got away with it as a disguise. He had good legs at least and had observed so many mannerisms and ways of walking that he could imitate a woman with no trouble at all. He ran through the list of the women he knew: the Woman - overdoing it; not Molly - for the opposite reason; Mrs Hudson - no; Donovan - oh, please! He settled on Irene's companion that he'd met in Belgravia - Lucy, Anna, Cathy, no, Kate, that was it, Kate.

"Shit! Whatarewe gonna do about your flat tits?" The boy glanced up and down the hall before his gaze landed on Sherlock's discarded clothes. He then grabbed Sherlock's dress shirt, deftly tearing it down the middle and ripping again until he was satisfied with the size and shape he was creating on Sherlock's frontage.

"Bend down more you idiot!" the boy berated as he tried to squeeze Sherlock's frontage into shape. He stepped back to admire his work. "Ok, now your face. Not much I can't do with some concealer but that nose is a real tall order!" He was talking to himself. He ended by pulling the wig firmly onto Sherlock's head and twirling some of the long curls over his shoulder and mussing it up a little on the crown.

"Oh well," he admitted, "it's pretty dark in there and, at this time, they're all pretty well plastered anyway. Chances are no one will notice... unless they want a piece of your arse..." He laughed rather too knowingly for a boy of his age. "And keep your hands out of sight. Nothing I can do to hide those monsters!"


	6. Seemingly Tragic Fantasy

_**Thanks to everyone who's R&Red. Arty told me she wanted to hear more about 'Kate' - thank you, Arty, really pushed me to be more descriptive.**_

_** And to Edhla for general inspirational writing. I have gone for more descriptive passages that originally written. I hope that it is an improvement. =;-D**_

_**I'd be grateful for some real lick-it-into-shape R&Ring, if anyone's game. I lose the ability to proofread my own stuff, very quickly... =;-D**_

* * *

**Chapter 6: ****_Seemingly Tragic Fantasy_**

They walked tentatively down the passageway until they came to a spiral staircase. It was functional and solid and said _staff only_ very plainly, simply from its lack of style or adornment.

Sherlock was trying out his walk behind his guide's back. Not suggestive and flirtatious like Irene; a little swagger, slightly boyish, a little tease in the sway of the hips, subtle was the name of this game. Sherlock ran a hand down the outside of his thigh, smoothing the silky dress material and tried looking at the floor demurely and then up with his lips slightly parted. Enigmatic was what he was aiming at, though he was fairly sure he was dangerously close to a Mike Jagger impression. Curse Mycroft and his Rolling Stone obsession.

He toned it down and tried sinking down an inch - _that_ felt more Kate-like. He was pleased with his performance and ready to take this one out on the road. And then he thought of John, with a twist in his stomach, and grinned, more Sherlock now than anyone, wondering whether he'd like to share this moment with his friend or heartily glad that John couldn't see him. Both emotions lodged themselves into his heart simultaneously.

The boy was looking up the stairway furtively and then he beckoned Sherlock to follow him up.

"Follow me. Keep your distance as far as possible when we meet anyone. Don't speak - _obviously_. Keep close, if anyone comes over, I'll tell them the boss wants you. They won't dare keep that mad bastard waiting."

Sherlock's passage across the two rooms was relatively uneventful. The majority of people were occupied either with the roulette wheel or with one of the hired girls. Irene's large claims about the lack of debauchery were obviously either grossly out of date or her idea of what constituted 'lewd' was out of line with popular opinion. He wondered briefly about her motives; whether it was something noble so that he wouldn't try to 'save' her and spoil a good scene, or that she had loyalties in the house of ill repute...

Then the barman called over, 'Hey! New girl, don't dawdle about, come over and help me with this enormous erection, I can't pull pints as it keeps getting bumping on the bar and getting in the way!"

The boy mouthed, "For the boss!" and the barman sucked his teeth in disgust and returned to wiping the bar down. Sherlock thought he heard a muttered, 'Keeps all the best for himself!' remark and wasn't sure whether to be flattered or horrified. _I'm Kate, I'm Kate, I'm Kate_, he kept repeating to himself and tried out his new demure eye-drop, flirty glance, but the barman's attention was back on his work.

They slipped right through to the far side of the bar without any further attention and the boy opened a door down a further corridor with a small key which he took from his waistcoat pocket.

When Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the gloom, the room was a shock in itself. It was done out like a fancy bordello, or what Sherlock had imagined one would look like when Mycroft first told him about the excitement of the Wild West and that it wasn't all about rustlers and sheriff stars. There was a large four-poster in the middle of the room, but it was unoccupied. There were velvet curtains hanging where there weren't even windows and jewelled mirrors hung from every wall and several were attached to the ceiling.

The draperies were so ornate and distracting that Sherlock thought for a moment that there was no one in the room and then he heard the rasping breathing and noticed the prone figure of Moran stretched out on several silk cushions, just beyond the bed from where they had come in, a litter of syringes about his body. He was very much worse for wear. Molly had had clients who were in better nick.

Sherlock had never met Moriarty's right hand man, but knew him by reputation and this diminished and broken man did not live up to the legend. He was barely recognisable from the CCTV footage that Sherlock had stolen from Mycroft's office a year or so ago. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting when he finally found Moran. A man who was anticipating his arrival, a man who was ready to fight until his last breath - but not this, not this shell with yellow eyes. And Sherlock deduced he had been that way for a long time. Why had Irene Adler lied? This man had not just arrived. The new moon meant nothing at all. From the look of his eyes and his general state of stupor, he had been there for weeks or even months. Much longer than Sherlock had been in Macau, longer than he had been in Hong Kong possibly.

Moran's breathing was laboured and he opened a slit of an eye and turned his head slightly in Sherlock's direction. His lips parted slightly and turned up in a hideous half grin. Then the eye-balls rolling up into his head and all Sherlock could see was the yellowy whites of the eyes again. The man was unconscious and well on his way to liver failure. Sherlock's mouth was dry with the taste of bitterness and disappointment that he was unable to shoot this pitiful wreck and so end his quest and finally win his life back.

The door opened once more and Sherlock turned, pointing the gun towards the intruder. "Chew! What are you doing... why.." Sherlock could hardly form words. The boy was walking in a peculiar manner and it didn't take Sherlock a moment to see why. He was being held from behind by his slightly older, but shorter counterpart, a knife to his throat.

Sherlock had been expecting a trap, but the boy had so obviously hated and feared Moran, that this had not been in his calculations. Sherlock stared at his erstwhile ally and waited to see what would develop. Chew smiled apologetically and tried to signal something with his eyes. Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly. He didn't want any heroics until it was clear what was going on. He did not have to wait long.

"I don't care who else dies with him," the boy said in a hard tone, "but that man's dying right now, one way or another. Shoot him! Shoot him through his black heart, Sherlock!"

Sherlock lowered his gun. "Not like this," he said his head clear for the first time since stepping through the door. He could see Irene's determined face right behind the boys. She raised her eyebrows and mouthed, "Shoot!" Sherlock wondered which one, Moriarty's prostrate henchman or the boy threatening the life of his young disciple. He figured that it didn't matter, as he could shoot neither, even when lives depended on it.

"You know," Sherlock continued in a conversational tone, "We've spent all this time together and you've never told me your name." He smiled and spread his hands slightly, like a conjuror demonstrating that there was nothing up his sleeves or concealed in his hands.

The Boy looked slightly more relaxed and smiled back ever so slightly. "It's Huan," he said simply. "Or so they tell me-"

Moran groaned and raised himself up on one elbow. He surveyed the room with a contemptuous expression before his gaze settled on the two young boys in their awful embrace. His lips pealed back in derision and he addressed his remarks to Chew's captor as if he were the only other person in the room. "Ah, the main course has arrived," he sneered. "Come here, my _Little Satisfaction_."

The older boy recoiled and was visibly quaking and started moaning to himself in a distracted manner. He was terrified of Moran and was now unable to break himself from his tormentor's captive gaze. He'd loosed his grip on Chew and Sherlock could see by the buckling of his knees that it would only be moments before he collapsed and Chew would be free.

Moran didn't take his eyes off the two boys, and licked his lips suggestively as he groped behind him for his rifle. He raised it with a surprisingly proficient and capable swing to bring the muzzle around to point towards the boys.

And then there was a noise, like a whisper past Sherlock's ear, a sickening meat-cleaver noise, and a low moan as Irene's knife struck Moran in the upper arm, making his rifle waver for a moment and then a sound like thunder. Sherlock watched in horror as the small red patch on Chew's chest soaked larger into his t-shirt. Chew's face was blurred as Sherlock ran towards him screaming his name. And then he registered for a moment Irene's shocked expression as she focused over his shoulder. Sherlock turned to see Moran's heels as he exits through a hidden door on the other side of the room. And he found that in that moment he didn't care and that the only thing that mattered was to get Chew to the hospital at all costs. The most important job on earth was to save this one boy's life. And even as he made the decision not to pursue Moran he knew that the cost was going to be great, and not all paid by himself.

It seemed that Sherlock's decision, his new focus, was a game changer and suddenly Irene and Huan had one aim, one imperative and that was to work in tandem with Sherlock's plans. Chew, however, was not on board with the new strategy. "Get him, Mr Sherlock, he's getting away!"

Sherlock lifted Chew gently, ignoring his pleas. "I'm ok, Mr Sherlock, get him first, Miss Irene will take care of me."

Irene and Huan suddenly came to the fore, leading the way up through the building. Their brash confidence and blather opened doors and it took moments for them to find themselves outside and half running for the car that was parked outside. "_Yuen_! Get us to Hill-top Hospital!" Irene ordered. The bewildered man didn't question her authority as they piled into the car, Sherlock cradling the head of his precious charge and muttering, 'Don't die, don't die,' distractedly to himself. It was probably as well that Chew was semi-conscious by now and not aware of what his mentor was saying, or the implication that his imminent death was the most likely outcome of his encounter with Sebastian Moran would have made the drive to the hospital even more distressing.

The drive to the hospital was interminable for Sherlock. He couldn't understand how a couple of streets could even take so long until he checked his watch and less than three minutes had passed since they had left the casino. Everything seemed in slow motion to him though, the hospital staff inefficiently slow and particularly unable to understand perfectly good Mandarin. Why that stupid women in the white coat needed to ask it all again in English - a gun shot wound, is a gun shot wound in any language... And then he realised that they had rushed Chew off on a hospital trolly and that it didn't matter how many times they asked him the same thing - Chew was getting the emergency treatment he required.

* * *

'Next of kin' opens doors in many institutions, including hospitals and Sherlock found himself relegated to a plastic chair in the foyer of the Hospital waiting for Madam Cho for any answers to be given. It was a demeaning and frustrating position to be in and he remember the occasion when he had claimed to be John's husband to find out his status after a knife fight where his flatmate had come out very much the worse for wear. Why he hadn't thought of claiming to be Chew's adoptive father, or appropriate adult on a trip or holiday, he could not think. He'd played a concerned father before to gain access to a victim's medical records - granted he'd been bodily thrown out of the hospital by security once the boy's father arrived, but he'd managed to ascertain the vital pieces of information that had ensured the swift arrest of the assailants.

An elderly couple came up to the counter and stared, wide-eyed and brazenly at Sherlock. It was only then that he realised that his current attire was not helping when it came to putting himself forward as the guardian of a minor. He looked helplessly at Irene as he sat down in the chair again, raising his eyebrows as he pointed to his inappropriate attire. Irene paced up to the nurses' station for the second time since Chew had been whisked away and, for a second time, was told that she was not family.

"Yes, I'm well aware of that fact," she said with a firm but polite manner. "But until his grandmother arrives we, my colleague and myself," she swept an arm in Sherlock's direction and he looked up attentively to see if her pleas were making any headway, "are all he has. We were rehearsing a play", she improvised, "when the accident happened-" Sherlock could see the receptionist shaking her head, but couldn't make out anything distinct beyond a flat refusal. She wasn't even trying to be sociable by that point, barely looking up when Irene leaned over her desk.

Irene frowned. Why Sherlock had to be so bloody honest... she could have made up all kinds of stories if it hadn't been for him blabbing his mouth off. She'd not seen a great deal of Sherlock Holmes on their previous encounters, but this was certainly a departure from the little she had seen of the man. She wasn't altogether sure that it was an improvement either.

Sherlock was sitting with his head in his hands when she returned to the seating area and was muttering, "Mycroft's right, Irene. Caring is not an advantage! All it did was put all my friends in danger, get Chew shot and allow a vicious murderer to get away." Irene took his hand without saying anything and they sat for a while in silence. It was just as well that Sherlock could not read minds and was too preoccupied to notice her pinched expression, as Irene was thinking along the same lines as Mycroft Holmes when it came to caring.

At least Huan had come into his own and was now using his undoubted talents at getting people on side at the reception desk and had claimed that Chew's parents were on their way but had rushed off without their mobiles and so could not be contacted. Why she couldn't tell their eldest son how his brother was getting on in surgery, he could not imagine. Sherlock was impressed, even at this distance, how well the boy was obviously getting along and his ability to shed tears when required. Sherlock was more than a little grateful that he was able to execute this Oscar winning performance while holding his thumb up behind his back.

Sherlock wasn't sure afterwards what it was that made him look up at that precise moment, Irene's gaze following his. She reacted first to the sight, and dragged Sherlock down with her even as, a spilt second later, he lunged to save her. Moran fired twice right at their moving bodies. It was a miracle that he missed with both shots, the speed at which they moved and a ricochet off a plastic hospital chair taking care of a bullet each.

Moran had obviously sobered up somewhat, but not so much that his aim wasn't compromised, or neither of them would have been available for the next thing that happened.

Both Irene and Sherlock ran as fast as they could, but neither were now running away from the bullet but rather towards the shooter. Moran was hastily reloading from across the waiting area in the foyer as Irene, who'd been closer, reached him first and put an arm out to grasp the barrel of the gun. Moran abandoned his reload and swiped out with the barrel, striking Irene a hard blow across the side of her face. Then there was a sickening noise as metal met skull bone and she was hurled across towards the reception desk where a young nurse was screaming ineffectually.

And then there was the fateful and decisive BANG!

It was like watching a slow motion moment in film. Irene could not work out where the thunderous noise had come from but she was fairly sure that it hadn't come from Moran's rifle. Her head was buzzing from the second hard fall of the day. She tried to get up to go to Sherlock but her legs would not cooperate and she fell back down to the floor again. Had the bullet been meant for her? She had not felt an impact but the mind sometimes took a while to register something so calamitous. The last thing she remembered was hearing Moran's maniacal laughter and seeing Sherlock in a pool of blood in front of her disbelieving eyes. And then blackness.


	7. The Brain is like a Maze

**Chapter 7: ****_The Brain is like a Maze_**

_If you see a clown in a hospital, then several emotions might go through your head. Some of those emotions might depend on the time of day, which ward you are in, who else is present and your prognosis. If it is teatime, several nurses are sitting around, apparently with no purpose, in the children's ward and you are recuperating nicely, you might think that this was a real treat. If, however, it is the early hours on the night you were almost fatally shot and nearly bled out some hours ago and there is no one else around, the same clown may seem like the angel of death hanging around awaiting your passing._

_When he saw the clown Chew didn't feel much like he was about to receive a treat._

* * *

It's a terrible thing when a friend dies. People grieve for years, their lives turned upside down. Irene lay in her hospital bed, her face a mask; in denial. She refused to believe what she knew in her heart, that the death of a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes would mean that her life would never be whole again. She swallowed with a dry throat and wondered how things would be different knowing this.

She could still see that pool of gloomy redness creeping across the hospital floor and feared closing her eyes as it spread wider every time. She had heard a whimpering sound last time she had been presumptuous enough to try to sleep, and had woken realising that it had been her own voice. She had not felt so fragile, so emotionally exposed since she was eleven and had watched her mother struck by that car... She had vowed never to be that vulnerable ever again. And now, when she was least expecting it, someone, a man at that, had penetrated her carefully nurtured armour. It wasn't possible - she refused to entertain the possibility.

She had texted him on her new iPhone _let's have dinner_ knowing that he would not pick up her calls. There would be nothing different there - he seldom responded, if ever. How it would make a real difference in her life, him being dead, she could not explain. Everything would go on just as before. She'd not cease to function without him in the world, but life would lose a certain playfulness.

She wondered if this was how John had felt when Sherlock had died the first time. She longed to speak to Kate. Kate would understand as she had a tragedy of her own - an unrequited love, the loss of which would put Kate into a tailspin that equalled Irene's own. If only she felt the same towards Kate and could return her unbridled passion with the same fierce loyalty and focused attention. Irene, however, had never belonged to one person - not before now, not before seeing Sherlock in an ocean of blood...

She wondered how Chew was getting on. They still wouldn't tell her much. Madam Cho had been in and out a couple of times, but said very little, other than he was as well as could be expected, whatever that meant.

Sherlock had been right in the end - caring was not an advantage. She had two emotions currently, neither of which was welcome, or useful in the circumstances. The first was a soul-gnawing emptiness, a sense of loss, and the second was an epic boredom. Hospitals were places of sheer tedium, and the constant waiting around for someone to tell you what to do. Irene didn't do submissive - and so she got out of bed, before she strictly speaking had doctor's permission. He had said that once the dizziness had subsided she would be allowed to visit for a few minutes. She presumed that he meant in a wheelchair and with medical supervision, but chose to interpret things her way. She'd had enough of this uncharacteristic acquiescence. Irene was many things, humble was not one of them and it was time for her to be the dominatrix who she had forged herself into.

Irene swung her legs around, over the edge of the bed, and tentatively tried out standing for the first time since she had come around. The floor was cool on her bare feet and she winced slightly at the throb in her head and wobbled, clutching at the bed, as she tried to balance as the room spun round in a nauseating manner. 'Best foot forward,' she encouraged herself stoically, as she ignored all physical indications that this might be a bad idea. She grinned to herself as she achieved a standing position and tottered slowly forwards.

Irene checked her reflection in the mirror above her sink and winced when she saw the bandage, the dried blood speckling the small shaved area on the side of her head. It doubtless would not take long to regrow the hair but, until then, she would have done anything to have one of Kate's silly, lopsided hats. The electric blue one with the feathers would be most fun, but it rather clashed with hospital colours...

She remembered the scarf that Madam Cho had brought her. Not really her thing, but perhaps a jaunty bandana... better than lying here feeling like a victim. She wet the fingers of one hand and careful rubbed the at the blood which had dried further down, near her cheek. Then she artfully twisted the colourful material and looped it around until it covered the bandages, wincing again as she tidied it into a knot at the other side of her head.

And she wasn't about to go visiting in these borrowed pyjamas - better naked - but she wanted to get to her destination and not get waylaid by a psychiatric assessment... The clothes that Madam Cho had brought for her to wear were over large and frumpy by anyone's standards. How a bunch of diminutive Chinese were able to find so many clothes too big for Westerners... She figured that the older woman did not approve of her and was trying to tone her down.

Never mind. Though now she looked, the flowery-printed cotton trouser bottoms were quite hippyish and rather suited her slim frame. She took a pair of nail scissors to the oversized shirt, cutting it shorter at the back and rolling the bottom edge under to hide the frayed ends before tying it under her bust. She pivoted on bare feet to see the effect from different angles. Not bad. Very retro. It would do.

All that remained was to borrow the black pumps from the cleaner who kept them in that store cupboard with the dodgy lock - and she was ready. A size too small, but that was ok, they were fairly flexible and she only needed them to get her between rooms. She checked her watch, but it had smashed at some point, with all that crashing around. It must be late though as the whole place was quiet. Chances are that all her preparations were unnecessary as there would be no one out there to stop her.

* * *

_He knew that some hospitals employed clowns as part of the treatment; some hospitals in some countries. Laughter being the best therapy. He was fairly certain that Macau wasn't one of those places and that Hospital Conde S Januário wasn't one of those hospitals. So why the creepy clown was walking down the hospital corridor - its head pivoting to face into the doorways in a ghoulish fashion as it passed - he could not say. He didn't like clowns. More than that, clowns completely freaked him out. But clowns at 3.47am in an otherwise deserted hospital corridor disturbed him in a whole new way._

_It didn't help much that the clown was carrying celebratory balloons. It didn't help much that the clowns head pivoted back again as he passed his door and walked on into the night. If a clown could walk past in a hospital at night it could walk back again. Not a comfort. He didn't like the thought of clowns anywhere at any time. He especially didn't like clowns in a hospital at night when he was lying vulnerable in bed following a trauma._

* * *

Irene put on her best Chinese-American accent and spoke in a loud clear voice from just out of view in the doorway.

"There is a Mrs Noakes to see you, Mr Charlton."

Mr Charlton looked up with a fleetingly gleeful expression before composing his features.

"Anna," she said, stepping through the door, "to Mr Charlton."

"Hello, On'an Oko!" the recumbent man said, sitting up straighter in bed. "Why Japanese?" His hand strayed upwards towards his hair, before he was aware of the reflex and dropped it back down onto the bed again.

"Why not? - Why an English football player from another era?"

"Madam Cho's idea of a joke, I think. I woke up as Jackie Charlton to find the old hawk had spun a pretty yarn about who I was and why I was in Macau being shot at. You can call me Jack," Sherlock said pleasantly.

"Oh!" Irene looked amused. "The winning header!" Irene sat unbidden on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"I believe that in the decisive match to bring them into the quarter finals in 1966, Mr Charlton's header at goal did not go past the goalposts and thus was not that impressive."

"And your header that knocked you unconscious for several hours and gave you concussion was?" She snorted quietly in a way that Sherlock didn't find unattractive. He had never seen her so much off her guard, so relaxed, so willing not to grasp control. Being virtually simultaneously knocked out was doing wonders for their relationship. It was like the good old days with John.

He smiled. "Saved our lives though," he said reasonably. "More than your fainting episode did!" Sherlock decided not to argue the toss over what had actually knocked him clean out; they were getting along so nicely. Giving Moran a Glasgow Kiss wasn't what had done it though, as much as that had hurt. It was more meeting the floor at extreme velocity from the force of Madam Cho shooting Moran which had done that. The doctors said that he was doing well to remember any of the run up to that moment, but it appeared he remembered it in glorious Technicolor.

She snorted again, more derisively this time. "And why would you know all that about football anyway? It's never going to solve a case."

Sherlock grimaced. "Some things won't be erased. Mycroft's doing. Went on and on about it when we were kids. Charlton didn't even score in the final. You'd think that he'd invented football, trained and managed the whole team and scored all of the goals the way Mycroft used to tell it." Sherlock shifted his weight to sit up straighter and incidentally tilting his face into a better light. "Mycroft was born to the shouts of the English supporters as the final whistle went, according to family history. Mycroft shot out as Mummy screamed at the ref when Hurst's goal was allowed - said it simply wasn't British to win when it was so controversial whether the ball crossed the line."

"My goodness, Mr Charlton, turns out that you can still surprise me!"

And she found that she could still surprise herself. The thought that this man's profession and lack of concern over his own personal safety would one day very likely get him killed still made her stomach turn over. But it was worth it. Sherlock Holmes was worth the anxiety and potential heart ache. The sense of loss of her independence and ability to distance herself from her deeper feelings melted in the warmth that flooded her heart, just knowing he was in the world and would sometimes look at her in a way that made her feel lighter than air. But, even more surprisingly, she didn't mind being smitten and not quite in control of just the one relationship in her life. Bit suspect for a dominatrix, but then nothing was static in life.

* * *

_He had stayed awake waiting, twenty minutes, twenty five, but the clown didn't return. And then there was a loud boom! and the whole ward shook and then there was silence, before the running feet sounded and his police protection came skidding into the room. He could smell the relief in the air. Someone's head would have been on the chopping block if it hadn't been so._

* * *

Irene hadn't been Sherlock's only visitor. When he had come round a young nurse had rushed off, to tell 'Auntie' that her nephew was awake. Sherlock suspected that she was going to reap a rather sizable reward for this information as she was less concerned for his health and wellbeing, or in telling a doctor, than she was to meet this other obligation.

The smart woman who arrived in front of him reminded him more than casually of Madam Cho - a very much younger and less irritable version of Madam Cho.

"MI5 old boy," he heard in Madam Cho's voice with a put-on upper class accent. And then he saw just why she was so reminiscent of his Macau landlady.

"You're kidding me!" Sherlock breathed, incredulous.

"Actually, yes, sorry. My little joke. Couldn't resist. Not MI5, not the day job at least, do a little moonlighting for a certain Mycroft Holmes, however."

"Mycroft! Of course, all along, the mysterious letter writer and pattern of crumbs leading me to you. Bet it was him that put something nasty in my last meal before I collapsed at your door - _so_ that I collapsed at your door." Sherlock was not sure if he was relieved or not that the identity of his benefactor had been solved. He wasn't sure if he'd rather it had turned out to be Myra Hindley or Harold Shipman rather than Mycroft Holmes. Both of them, however, had the decency to be dead.

"Actually, rather inconveniently, you collapsed on the other side of town. Had to have you moved so that Chew here could rescue you and bring you home. Little miracle that boy.

"Not as inconvenient as you royally rogering our carefully set up surveillance though. We were well on the way to getting everything we needed to arrest the owner and his crew. He was ours! Have to start all over now the cover's blown and he's taken the whole operation goodness knows where."

Sherlock smiled knowingly, which irritated Madam Cho further. "_What_?" she said with some annoyance.

"You mean Harvey Schmitt-Fitzpatrick?" he said innocently. "And you were anything but near finding out his identity, so don't give me that codswallop."

Madam Cho bit at her lower lip distractedly. It was a nervous twitch that Sherlock had not seen done by his erstwhile landlady. This new persona did not like to be outmaneuvered. Her eyes, however, told a different story. She was also unable to hide her excitement at the news and Sherlock looked forward to a detailed account of all the tiny clues that had led him to deduce that it was this apparently lackluster businessman who was the real czar behind this operation and several more in Hong Kong and Shanghai.

* * *

_If you see a clown in a hospital, then several emotions might go through your head. Some of those emotions might depend on the time of day, which ward you are in, who else is present and your prognosis. If it is teatime, several nurses are sitting around, apparently with no purpose, in the children's ward and you are recuperating nicely, you might think that this was a real treat. If, however, it is the early hours on the night, you were almost fatally shot and nearly bled out some hours ago and there is no one else around, the same clown may seem like the angel of death hanging around awaiting your passing._

_When he saw the clown, Sebastian Moran didn't feel much like he was about to receive a treat. And he was right. The clown's leering grin and a bunch of brightly coloured balloons were the last thing that Sebastian saw before there was tremendous explosion, brief searing pain, a bright light and then nothing. _

_We do not know whether Sebastian died with horror or a wry smile on his face as he didn't have a face to speak of when his police guards rushed into his room some moments after the explosion. We shall never be certain whether Sebastian's last thoughts were of his dead master, the man who had meant everything to him, or more simply of the irony of death by clown._

* * *

Later Sherlock was out on a visiting session of his own and happened to bump into two well dressed men, both having a striking resemblance to Chien's colleagues at the Lucky Dove Restaurant.

"Boy are you gullible," the younger man said. "Macau has the second highest life expectancy in the world. Do you really think that that is achieved by having a bunch of piss poor beggars run all the tourist services. Can't believe it when you fell for that! Nearly shat myself laughing!"

"Well, I see at least that your language is no different from your covers, gentlemen." Sherlock said amicably. "Sorry about your job, you're welcome to have it back now- er, Peng."

Peng laughed companionably. "Stick that up your Arsenal FC!" Peng said eloquently.

"Seems to be a spate of apt naming going around," Sherlock observed. "Peng, the fabulous roc bird of legend, fake cleaner working for the Lucky Dove Restaurant - not such a fabulous bird judging from the state of the kitchens."

And then there's Jingguo, administering the country. What are you then, a Civil Servant?"

"Something like that," 'Guo admitted walking with Sherlock into Chew's room. He grinned at Sherlock, but did not elucidate.

"And Chew? Who is he really? A thirty year old agent with a hormone imbalance?"

Madam Cho, who was sitting in the chair nearest Chew's bed, laughed and said with some warmth, "Best agent I've ever had. Does the best backstory on the hoof I've ever heard. Comprehensive, that's what he is. I'd get him to tell you his real life story, but neither of us would believe a blinking word, even if it were all 100% the bonafide truth."

Chew was grinning good-naturedly from where he was propped up on several pillows, an impressive bandage showing through his pyjamas and his arm in a sling. He didn't look at all penitent and Sherlock wondered if he knew the difference between fantasy and reality. He suspected the lines had got blurred at some point and now even Chew probably didn't know what had really happened to him in his short, brutal existence.

Peng leant over and patted the boy on the head fondly. As he turned back to speak to the assembled company he noticed Sherlock staring at his chin - a fleeting moment where Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, then his mouth clamped shut. Peng lifted a hand to his chin distractedly then checked himself. The two men exchanged a look but neither of them was prepared to say why a grown man, not known for his thespian leanings would be wearing make-up, white grease-paint indeed - a small smear remaining just under the jaw-line.

* * *

_Despite all the eye-witness reports of a clown, or clowns in the Hospital Conde S Januário, not one person saw any clowns entering or leaving the Hospital buildings on the night of the 15th. Not once did a clown show up on any CCTV footage nor was he, or they, ever seen by any security personnel. It was like he, or they, were a mirage seen by a select few insomniacs, all of whom were on heavy pain medication._

* * *

"Why did you lie to me about what was going on in there?"

"Because you've changed Mr Holmes. You have _always_ cared," - She watched his disbelieving expression - "more than you care to admit, even to yourself, _especially_ to yourself. But now you show it and sometimes it gets in the way of what needs to be done. Look what happened when Chew got shot." She left that thought hanging in the air. Sherlock reflected that he would not do that part differently in any case.

"You could not afford to get distracted from your aim," she continued. "Moran had nothing to do with what went on in that place - oh, don't look like that! - not the girls anyway... He was never a Mr Big, he was lost without his master."

Sherlock made a dismissing tutting noise. _Tell me something I don't know_.

"He'd always been an addict too. Just that he'd fallen in deeper since he'd lost his latest raison d'être."

Sherlock was still peeved about being lied to, again. "Is _that_ why you deceived me into waiting on lunar cycles - so that he'd sink lower and so be easier to vanquish? Do you think so little of my ability to think that I'd not be able to defeat him sober?"

"Partly - I also had my own agenda - oh, don't ask! I hate to have to lie when it can be avoided."

"Could have fooled me - thought lying was like breathing with you..."

Irene smiled. She was doing a lot of smiling recently and it wasn't her usual calculated style either, it was simply joy de vivre. Being ticked off by a irritated Sherlock was more fun than a dinner dance in her book.

* * *

_Disclaimer: No clowns were harmed in the making of this story._

* * *

**_I hope that I have now explained everything that you need to know from earlier chapters. Please do ask if there is something I have left out. I have a strong feeling that this is not going to be the last version of this story, but didn't want to leave my kind reviewers on a cliffhanger for longer than necessary._**


	8. Addendum: Redemption and Rebirth

**Addendum: ****_Redemption and Rebirth_**

The agent who went by the name of Madam Cho was writing up her reports on the findings of Operation City of Dreams. It would have been a pathetic and career ending report if it were not for Sherlock's observations and deductions. Her two comedic side-kicks were seldom dispirited, but it had been a close call when the whole operation had come to such an abrupt halt without any arrests.

"So, how'd he know it was Harvey Schmitt-Fitzpatrick, anyway?" Peng asked, while playing around with his chair's centre of gravity, dangerously near to exceeding it's tipping point. Madam Cho watched with cool interest as the chair balanced perfectly for a moment before he tilted it forwards again and it came to rest on all four legs. _Next time_, she thought wryly.

Madam Cho smiled remembering her conversation with Sherlock about his deductions. "Several things," she said, "involving a barman's lapel badge, a poster for the Russian Ballet, several personal items in what Sherlock referred to as Schmitt-Fitzpatrick's boudoir, which included an old school tie and a particular make of size 13 boots, the right of which was worn down on the left hand side in a peculiar and diagnostic fashion." She wasn't going to elaborate further. Sherlock was right when he said that explanations made his deductions look commonplace.

Guo put a foot on the rung under Peng's chair to stop him tipping backwards for a second time. "I heard there was a big clue with some document that he stole from his brother's office when he was after evidence of Moran's whereabouts," Guo said, while glaring at his younger colleague, who's chair was rising again, despite several warning noises from both his superiors. "Some deeds and a credit card receipt placed him right where the action was, too many times for it to be coincidence."

Madam Cho made a non-committal face and pressed send. If Peng wanted to know more, he could read this bloody boring report. Goodness knows, few enough would bother once they had their man and all the indications were good that he would be in custody any moment now. And as if on cue, Madam Cho's text alert bleeped to confirm that Schmitt-Fitzpatrick was indeed now being escorted to a plane which would take him to his home for the next few months awaiting his trial. Efficient man that Mycroft Holmes. Efficient, and ruthless when it was called for. Chances are that Harvey Schmitt-Fitzpatrick would find himself answering charges for drugs related crime in a country where there was still the death penalty for such offenses. Given what she had heard about the treatment of young Huan, she didn't much care what became of him, as long as he was off the street.

And now Madam Cho had two other young men to go visit and she resented every moment spent in this god forsaken office. She'd never liked offices. Too confined and stuffy for her outdoor's nature. And Chew and Huan needed new visas and passports if they were to come back with the rest of the personnel when the operation finally closed down. It would be a nuisance to hang around longer than necessary, but then she hadn't had a chance, as old Madam Cho, landlady, to go high-class shopping and you could certainly do that in style in Macau. She wondered if there were a UNIQLO in Macau... Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the Embassy continued to drag its feet after all.

She was just rounding the corner on her way to the lifts when she heard a crash and a muffled shriek that sounded suspiciously like Peng. She shook her head and smiled to herself as she pressed the button for the ground floor. _That Peng, always playing the clown!_

* * *

Irene wasn't sure if she was looking forward to this call or not. She decided that it had to be made, however, and so best to get it over with. She was surprised to admit to herself that she was also rather keen to hear the voice on the other end. Keener than she'd like to admit to the callee.

"Aw, honey, don't be like that!" she fiddled with a button on her blouse as she talked. "I'm coming back home as soon as I can get a flight." She listened for a moment and then, "Signal's not so great, I'll phone when I get that flight... yes, ok ... you too... bye!"

It was like being bloody married - not an institution that Irene had ever hankered after - but surprisingly in not such a bad way. Maybe one day she ought to make an honest woman of Kate. Sherlock was exciting, but not the kind to settle down and, after an adventure like this, Irene would have liked nothing better than a back-rub, a foot-bath and a large Pimms sitting out on the terrace. She couldn't somehow manage to include Sherlock in the image; not unless it involved an urgent text or some running around. Not restful. Maybe she was finally getting middle-aged. That would amuse Kate.

"I don't want to spoil your Beach Boys moment, John, but you're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Whistling _God Only Knows_. I'm flattered, mate, and all that, but I'm only going on holiday, I think somehow you'd survive without me..."

John smiled for the first time since they'd sat down in the pub, his drink untouched in front of him, while Greg was half way through his own.

Greg leant over and put a hand on his friend's forearm. "If you want to talk about him, John, then I'm all ears. There's no statute of limitations on grief, you know. You got me through all that heart ache with Julie after all. And he was your best friend - the man who dragged you out of the quagmire of depression after Afghanistan."

"Thanks, Greg, it's good to know. But let's not. Let's not spoil a perfectly good evening by talking about a man who... didn't have... didn't have the _decency_... to tell me...

John's face had changed subtly part way through his statement. He was staring at a spot somewhat to the left of his companion and Greg glanced over his shoulder to see if he'd missed something. "... to tell me... he's not dead, Greg! _The lanky bastard isn't dead and he - didn't - even - tell - me!_"

Greg's face was a picture. His empathetic face was frozen for a moment before splitting right down the middle. His mouth fell open, his eyes stretched - he was the poster boy for gobsmacked.

"Why... what do you... how do you-"

"-Because he's standing over there at the door, trying to read whether it's safe to come over or if I'll clock him one ... I've not decided yet, hence he's not sure. How do we play it, Greg? Righteous anger, or like it's the most natural thing in the world?"

* * *

**_So, gentle readers, what do you think - clock Sherlock one, pretend he had just returned from a short weekend away in Skegness, or hugs all round? I'm leaning towards clocking Sherlock one personally. _**

**_I'm leaving it to your imagination though, so don't ask for another chapter. This story is done. Auntie Beeb will do it so much better than any of us can imagine - or I'll cancel my TV license. That'll scare 'em!_**


End file.
